


With(out) Your Touch I Suffocate

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 15:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1392949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a throwaway comment, nothing he'd actually meant-- but as it turns out, well.</p>
<p>Maybe Steve does like getting punched after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With(out) Your Touch I Suffocate

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculously excited for Cap 2 to finally ( _finally!_ ) come out, so naturally I'm writing fic to pass the time.
> 
> Warning for excessive use of parentheses and run-on sentences. Title from "Chokehold" by Adam Lambert.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Steve had never given it a second thought.

Of course he didn’t _like_ getting punched. He just didn’t like bullies and wasn’t afraid to let them know— and, okay, so maybe that translated into getting hit more often than he’d have liked. It was worth it. Anything was better than standing by and doing nothing.  
  


* * *

  
Steve had never given it a second thought. Until _him._  
  


* * *

_  
_There’s a mask covering his face, ragged hair flying as he throws punch after punch, maneuvering expertly to dodge the blows Steve offers in retaliation. They’re _matched,_ Steve realizes with a jolt. He hesitates, and it’s only a moment but it’s a moment too long— enough time for the Soldier to get in one good hit, hard enough to knock Steve to his knees.

When he looks up again, he’s gone— _a ghost_ indeed, but a brutally solid one at that, Steve thinks as he reaches up gingerly to touch his bruised jaw. He gropes for his shield and gets to his feet, noting that somewhere in the midst of their fistfight, backup had arrived.

Sam jogs over to him, wincing at the sight of Steve cupping his jaw through the helmet. “Damn, Cap. Never seen anyone get the best of you like that. Who the hell _was_ that guy?”

Steve’s hand falls away from his jaw as he opens his mouth to speak: he’s healing already, though a dull ache lingers along the right side of his face. “I have no idea.”  
  


* * *

  
Still, lying in bed that night, he can’t stop thinking about it. About _him._ The Winter Soldier, an assassin, a ghost, but beyond that— who the hell knows?

_(Where did he learn to_ fight _like that?)_

Steve presses his fingers to his skin, to the ghost of a bruise, moving deliberately over the spot that just hours ago had been tender from the force of his fist. His fingers drag from his face down to his neck, and he imagines the Winter Soldier’s hands at his throat, thumbs digging in, bruising, choking—

—and it’s with a start that he realizes he’s half hard. Tearing his fingers from his neck and twisting them into the sheets, Steve tries like hell not to think, to will himself to _stop._ It takes all his willpower and then some, but he manages to calm down, shutting his eyes and curling a hand under his pillow until he falls into a restless sleep.

He sleeps, but he dreams of strong hands gripping his waist, tangled hair hiding the Soldier’s face from view as he swallows Steve down, leaving thumb-shaped bruises along his hips that don’t fade in the light of day.  
  


* * *

  
(Be careful what you wish for.)

The words echo in Steve’s mind the next time he encounters the Winter Soldier, feeling his fist collide with the shield hard enough to force it back against Steve’s body. He’s astonished, and even more so when the Soldier knocks it aside as though it’s nothing.

_How the hell—_ , and Steve ducks out of the way but once again he’s a fraction of a second too slow. The Soldier catches him by the throat and lifts him off the ground, one hand around Steve’s neck; Steve’s fingers scrabble at his arm until they catch on the Soldier’s sleeve.

He hears a rip and sees the glint of metal _(metal?),_ but he doesn’t have time to focus on that. The Soldier’s fingers are squeezing, tightening around his throat, but Steve manages to force a knee between his legs and his grip loosens immediately. _At least_ that’s _still flesh and blood,_ Steve thinks grimly, kneeing him again.

The Soldier drops him and once more Steve finds himself on his knees, reaching for his shield, but he’s out of reach— out of sight— before he can act. He shakes his head in disbelief and savors the burn in his throat as he rises from the ground, noting the destruction the Soldier has left in his wake.  
  


* * *

  
That night, Steve gives in.

He’s been fighting off dreams, unbidden fantasies for the past week; now, with the memory of those metal fingers around his neck, he can’t keep his hands from wandering any more than he can his mind.

Slipping a hand beneath the sheets, he curls his fingers around his cock and imagines metal against his skin, the taste of blood in his mouth. He thinks of the press of the Winter Soldier’s body, solid against his own; his face is still a blur, though, hidden behind that mask. It hardly matters— each stroke of his fingers, each stifled moan as he _imagines,_ those are what matter, and he comes into his fist after no time at all.

The relief is momentary, and his limbs feel heavy as he wipes his hand clean. He’s on edge again, unsatisfied, empty. Slipping into unsettling dreams once more, the world tilts, tinged red as blood drips into his eyes, his ribs crack, and all he can do is beg the Soldier for _more_.  
  


* * *

  
Smoke rises around them, sirens wail, but once again they’re at each other’s throats, matched as only they can be. The Soldier’s metal arm is exposed this time, and somehow he seems more dangerous than ever— but when the smoke clears, just for a moment, Steve realizes it’s because he can see his eyes.

The mask is missing from all but the lower half of his face, though his eyes are smudged with black, and the glint of his gaze hits Steve with a jolt— but _it can’t be_.

The Winter Soldier is impossibly skilled with a knife, flipping it deftly between hands as he stabs and swerves. Steve gets in a few hits, kicks of his own, but it’s only a matter of time before—

Steve staggers back, hissing in pain as he presses a hand to his side and watches it come away red. The Soldier has danced away but he’s waiting, silent, still, in anticipation of Steve’s next move.

He can’t help it. “Why don’t you just _kill me_?” Steve demands, because he’d like to see him try. What he doesn’t expect is for the Soldier to laugh.

He _laughs_ , actually laughs, as though the thought of killing Steve is preposterous— and then stops abruptly, as though unsure why he’d started in the first place. He hesitates a moment, and it’s the most human he’s ever seemed, but Steve is frozen.

( _It can’t be_ , but he knows that sound.)

Then the Soldier runs.

Steve knows it’s useless to throw the shield after him, considers giving chase, but his mind is foggy and he’s not even sure he can move. He only finds his voice after the Soldier’s disappeared into the smoke, and it escapes in a whisper, because he doesn't think he can bear much more.

“ _Bucky?_ ”  
  


* * *

  
That night, his dreams turn to nightmares.  
  


* * *

  
It’s months before Bucky returns to them, before “who the hell is Bucky?” turns to realization, to anger, to acceptance. It’s longer before he returns to Steve, to his arms, to his bed, and longer still until he trusts himself.

Steve nearly forgets the dreams, or at least he tries; he’s sickened, ashamed, because Bucky needs _him,_ not his depraved desires, not anything that might send him running again.

(Still, he remembers the feel of metal against his throat, a fist colliding with his jaw, and can hardly keep himself from asking Bucky for more. He brings himself off in the shower and feels empty, like he’s betraying Bucky somehow, or maybe like he’s betraying himself.)  
  


* * *

  
Until.

(Steve’s on his knees, Bucky’s back to the wall: they didn’t make it to the bed, but neither of them has any complaints.)

Bucky’s metal fingers spark as they drag across the wall, leaving scratches in their wake; it’s not long before he gives in and laces a hand into Steve’s hair, tugging just this side of too hard. Metal scrapes along Steve’s scalp, and he has to pull away to breathe, to press a hand against his jeans, and with only a few stuttered strokes he’s coming, caught up in the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

When Steve can finally bring himself to glance up, Bucky’s looking down at him in shock. “I was gonna apologize, but— _fuck_ , Steve—” and he doesn’t miss a beat, swallows Bucky down once more, swipes his tongue under the head of his cock and moans as Bucky’s hand finds its way back to his hair.

(He’s less cautious this time, and Steve’s ready for round two before he’s even back on his feet.)  
  


* * *

  
“So…you’re into that?” Bucky asks, not embarrassed but hesitant, as though _he’s_ worried about crossing a line. His head is on Steve’s chest as Steve’s fingers card through his hair, pausing for just a moment at the sound of his voice.

“More than just that,” he responds before he can stop to think, but all Bucky does is exhale against his skin and murmur, “That’s new.”

“You were the one who suggested I liked getting punched,” Steve reminds him, letting his hand slip lower to curl around Bucky’s waist.

“Did I?” Bucky asks, and Steve can _feel_ his smile. “I did,” he recalls moments later, and his tone is part nostalgic, part bitter as he thinks of that night, the first of their last.

“Turns out you were right,” Steve says, voice quiet, because he’s not sure if he should, “But only when it’s a fair fight.”

It’s a miniscule movement, barely there, but Steve feels the metal arm tighten around his waist, protective, terrified. “You mean—” and he nods, knows Bucky can feel it, holds him closer as he grows perfectly still.

He still thinks of Bucky and the Winter Soldier as two separate entities, but he knows they’re _not_ , and the last thing he wants is to— remind Bucky, to bring up anything he can’t take back. He’s worried he may have taken it too far, but Bucky just lets out a shuddering breath, pulls away and sits up to look him in the eye, ask, “So what else did you think about?”  
  


* * *

  
Bucky still doesn’t trust himself enough to completely let go, to take control, to push his limits— “Maybe someday,” he says, as though that’s not enough, and Steve kisses him to shut him up because _this_ is already so much more than he could have asked for.

He’s less careful in the gym, pinning Steve and grinding down against him, kissing his neck and feeling his hips rise, eager for more. He knows now why Steve would run off after their sparring sessions, flushed and desperate and, well.

(He isn’t showering alone anymore.)

He’ll shove Steve into the bed, against the wall, holding his wrists above his head and sinking his teeth into his neck; he’ll wait until Steve is cursing and moaning, looking up from his knees and begging before he relents, takes him in hand and finally, _finally_ lets him come.

There’s a few memorable occasions: Bucky bringing a hand down across Steve’s face as he rides him, leaning in to kiss him and tasting blood, not to mention the time he agrees to handcuff him, bringing him to the edge again and again but never quite letting him fall.

(Then: Bucky’s metal fingers curl tight around Steve’s throat, choking him until it’s too much for either of them, until they’re spent and Bucky won’t look at Steve. He curls in on himself as Steve kisses along his shoulder blades and whispers in his ear, reassuring, “You didn’t hurt me, Buck— I’m fine, we’re fine,” and Bucky turns to him with shining eyes and kisses him until they’re both breathless once more.)

So maybe they’re a bit of a mess, but they’d never claimed to have things figured out. “Let’s hear it for Captain America,” Bucky murmurs teasingly as they lie in bed, all sweat slick skin and tangled sheets between them. “Can you imagine if they knew?” Steve chuckles, eyes focused on the window of his Brooklyn apartment, on the lights that shine in from the night outside. “I’m not sure I’d be anybody’s hero then.”

Bucky’s fingers touch Steve’s chin, tilting his face up so he can meet his eyes. “You’d still be mine,” Bucky tells him, expression serious, but he cracks too easily when Steve bursts into laughter. “You’re a jerk.”

“Punk.”

(“Really, though,” Bucky says later, as they hover just on the edge of sleep, “It’s none of their business. It’s no one’s but our own. So screw ’em,” and the last thing Steve feels before he drifts off is Bucky’s lips curving into a contented smile against his neck.)

(He sleeps, and he dreams of strong hands, metal limbs that take him apart, put him back together, and the edge of a smile he’d missed more than he’d known.)


End file.
